A chorus of howls came from behind the bearded guard. He turned and raised his gun, but he was buried under a pile of snarling creatures. Austin holstered his gun and he and Zavala were lifting MacLean into the boat when one of the creatures broke away from the others. It staggered toward the edge of the pier. Gamay raised her gun to shoot the creature. Trout, who was preparing to cast off the dock lines, stopped and grabbed her wrist. He recognized the creature as the one he had encountered in the blockhouse. “He's wounded,” Trout said.
The creature's chest was dark with blood. He stared at Trout, and then his legs buckled and he pitched forward, dead, into the boat. Austin yelled at Trout to take the wheel while he tended to MacLean As soon as Gamay had cast off the lines, Trout gunned the throttle and pointed the bow into the darkness.
The boat sped from the island of horror at full throttle. Trout turned the wheel over to Gamay and went to MacLean who was lying on his back. The other scientists had made room for him. Austin had tucked a life jacket under MacLean's head as a pillow and he was kneeling beside the mortally wounded scientist. His ear was close to MacLean's mouth. He raised his head when he saw Trout and said, “He wants to talk to you.”
Trout kneeled down on the other side of the dying scientist. “We got away, Mac,” he said. “We'll get you to a doctor and get you fixed up in no time.”
MacLean replied with a gurgling laugh and blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. “Don't try to fool an old Scotsman, my friend.”
When Trout went to reply, MacLean lifted a weak hand. "No.
Let me talk." His eyes started to roll back in his head, but he pulled himself together.
“The formula,” he said.
“What about it?”
MacLean's eyes went to Austin's face. And then he died.
GERTRUDE CAME OUT to say good-bye. The AUV picked up the sound of the departing patrol boat and intercepted it about a mile from the island. Zavala saw the vehicle first. He was probing the darkness with a spotlight, looking for rocks, when the tall fin came into view. He thought it was a killer whale, but as it grew closer he saw rivets in the metallic fin and knew exactly what it was.
The vehicle paced them for a few hundred feet, then peeled off and went about its routine patrol. No one aboard the patrol boat knew how close they had come to disaster. Back at the command center, Max had sent the AUV to pursue the escaping boat and had armed all four of the torpedoes. He had set the launch switch and was about to hit the fire button when his throat had been ripped out by a red-eyed demon.
The patrol boat continued blissfully on its way for another half hour before Austin decided to call the Coast Guard for help. Minutes later, the 110-foot British Coast Guard boat Scapa picked up the Mayday from a boat broadcasting a position. The Scapa responded with
its full thirty-knot speed. Based on past experience, the boat's skipper thought the call was from a fisherman in trouble. As he gazed from the deck of the Scapa at the inflatable boat caught in the spotlight, Captain John Bruce thought that he had seen some strange sights in his twenty years of patrol in the Orkney Islands. But this was one for the books.
The rigid inflatable off the port bow was about thirty feet in length, Bruce estimated. Most of the shivering passengers on board were dressed in lime coveralls. The captain didn't know of any local prisons, but the circumstances, to say the least, were highly suspicious. Decades at sea had taught Captain Bruce to be careful. He ordered his crew to stand by with weapons ready.
As the patrol boat pulled alongside the inflatable, the captain raised an electric megaphone to his lips and said: “Please identify yourself.”
A man came to the side and waved to get the captain's attention.
He had broad shoulders, rugged bronze features and his hair was platinum, almost silver in color.
“Kurt Austin of the National Underwater and Marine Agency,” he said, his voice carrying clearly without artificial magnification over the sound of boat engines. “These people are suffering from exhaustion and possible hypothermia. Can you help us out?”
The captain reacted with caution, despite the obvious earnestness in Austin's face. He had heard of NUMA, the far-reaching American ocean science organization, and had occasionally come across one of its vessels on a mission. But he couldn't reconcile the sorry bunch crowded into the small boat with the sleek turquoise-hulled research ships with which he was familiar.
Captain Bruce was a burly Scotsman with a freckled bald head, light blue eyes and a firm chin that correctly advertised the determination of its owner. He let his eye roam from stem to stern. There was no faking the weariness and anxiety he saw in the faces of those crowding the inflatable. Captain Bruce ordered a boat lowered and the passengers taken on board. He warned the deck crew to keep their weapons ready and a close eye on the boarders.
It took several trips to move the passengers from one boat to another. Seen from up close, it was clear that the bedraggled passengers were no threat. As they stepped onto the deck, the medic gave them a quick physical checkup. Then they were each given a blanket to wrap themselves in and directed to the mess hall for hot soup and coffee.
Austin took the last boat over, accompanied by an attractive red-haired woman and two men, one with a dark complexion and the other so tall he stuck out of the boat like a mast.
Austin shook the captain's hand and introduced the others. “This is Paul and Gamay Morgan-Trout and Joe Zavala,” he said. "We're all with
NUMA."
“I didn't know NUMA had any operations going in the Orkneys,” the captain said, shaking hands all around.
“Technically speaking, we don't.” Austin told the others that he would join them in the mess in a few minutes and he turned back to the captain. “The passengers were having a rough time and some of them are suffering from exposure. On top of that, we were lost in the fog, so we called for help. Sorry to bother you.”
“No bother, lad. That's our job.”
“Thanks anyway. I have another favor to ask. Could you radio a message to Rudi Gunn at NUMA headquarters in Washington? Tell him Austin and company are well and will be in touch.”
“I'll have someone get right on it.”
“In that case I could use some hot soup myself,” Austin said with a smile. He turned around as he walked off and said casually, “By the way, there are two bodies on board the inflatable.”
“Dead bodies?”
“Very dead. I wonder if your crew could bring them over before you put the boat in tow.”
“Yes, of course,” Captain Bruce said.
“Thanks again, Captain,” Austin said. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders like a Navajo Indian and strode off toward the galley.
The captain had an annoyed expression in his eyes. He was not used to having people usurp his command. Then he broke into a chuckle. After years at sea dealing with different crews and situations, he was a good judge of men. Bruce detected that what some might have seen as insouciance in Austin's carefree manner was a supreme self-confidence. He ordered his men to retrieve the bodies and take them to the dispensary. Then he told his crew to tie a towline on the boat.
He returned to the bridge and sent Austin's message off to NUMA. He had just finished filing a report with the Coast Guard command when the medic called on the intercom. The captain listened to the medic's excited voice, then left the bridge and went down to the dispensary. Two body bags were lying on gurneys. The medic gave Captain Bruce scented petroleum jelly to dab under his nostrils.
“Brace yourself,” the medic said and unzipped one of the body bags.
The captain had seen and smelled dead bodies in various levels of sea decomposition, and the strong animal odor that issued from the bag didn't bother him as much as the sight that greeted his eyes. His ruddy face turned ash gray. The captain was a good Presbyterian who neither drank nor swore. This was one of those times when he wished he were less devout.
“What in God's name is that thing?” he said in a hoa
rse whisper.
“The stuff of nightmares,” the medic said. “I've never seen anything like it.”
“What about the other one?” the captain said.
The medic unzipped the second bag. The body was that of a handsome gray-haired man in his fifties or sixties.
“Zip them both up,” the captain ordered. When the medic complied, the captain said, “What did they die of?”
“Both these, er, men were killed by gunshots.”
Captain Bruce thanked the medic and then headed to the mess hall. The frightened faces he had seen earlier were smiling, thanks to generous infusions of food and rum. Austin sat at a table talking with Paul and Gamay.
Austin had been listening, deep in thought, as they took turns filling him in on their kidnapping and imprisonment. He saw Captain Bruce and gave him a warm smile. “Hello, Captain. As you can see, your hospitality has not gone unappreciated.”
“Glad to hear that,” the captain said. “I wonder if I might have a word with you in private, Mr. Austin.”
Austin took in the seriousness of the captain's expression. He had a good idea of why the captain wanted to see him. “Of course.”
The captain led him to a ready room near the mess hall and told him to take a seat.
“I've got some questions to ask you.”
“Go right ahead.”
“It's about those bodies. Who or what are they?”
“One of them is a Scottish chemist named MacLean Angus MacLean I'm not sure who the other one is, or was. I've been told that he is a mutant, the result of a scientific experiment gone wrong.”
“What kind of experiment could produce a monster like that poor devil?”
“I'm not privy to the details.”
The captain shook his head in disbelief. “Who shot them?”
“They were killed trying escape from an island, where they were being held prisoner.” He gave the position.
“The forbidden island} I've patrolled these waters for two decades and have never set foot on the place. What in God's name were you doing there?”
“My colleague Paul Trout and the pilot of the submersible Alvin were being held against their will. We went ashore on a rescue mission and ran into a little trouble.”
“Who was keeping them prisoner?”
“I don't know. I suggest that we straighten it all out when we get back to shore.”
A young crewman came into the room and handed Captain Bruce a sheet of folded paper. “These just came in, sir.”
“Thank you,” the captain said. He excused himself and read the messages and handed one to Kurt. It was from Rudi Gunn.
“Glad all are well. Details soon? Rudi.”
The captain read the other note and raised his eyebrows.
“It seems that you have what Americans call 'clout,” Mr. Austin. The central Coast Guard command has been contacted by the Admiralty. We are to treat you with the utmost courtesy, and to give you anything you want."
“Do British vessels still stock grog?” Austin said.
“I don't have any grog, but I have a bottle of fine Scotch whiskey in my cabin.”
“That will do just fine,” Austin said.
A WELCOME OF A different sort greeted the Scapa as it sidled up to the dock at Kirkwall, Orkney's capital. Lined up on shore, waiting for the Coast Guard boat to arrrve, were a bus, a hearse and about two dozen figures dressed in white hooded contamination suits.
Austin stood at the rail of the boat with Captain Bruce. He eyed the welcoming committee and said, “That's either a decontamination team or the latest in British fashion.”
“From the looks of things, my crew won't be going on shore leave anytime soon,” the captain said. “The Scapa and its crew have been quarantined in case you and your friends have left any nasty bugs behind.”
“Sorry to cause you all this trouble, Captain.”
“Nonsense,” Captain Bruce said. “Your visit has certainly enlivened what would have been a routine patrol. And as I say, it's what we do.”
Austin shook hands with the captain, then he and the other
refugees from the island walked down the gangway. As each passenger set foot on land, he or she was asked to don a clear plastic suit and cap and a surgical mask. Then they were escorted onto the bus and the dead were loaded into the hearse. The passengers were asked not to raise the window blinds. After a ride of five minutes, they stepped off the bus in front of the large brick building that once could have served as a warehouse.
A huge bubble tent had been set up inside the building to serve as a decontamination lab staffed by more people in white suits. Everyone who had been on the island was asked to shower and their clothes were stuffed in plastic bags and taken off to be analyzed. When they were finished showering, they were given cotton hospital outfits that made them look like mental patients, poked and prodded by a phalanx of plastic-wrapped doctors and pronounced fit to rejoin the human race. Despite the indignities, they were treated with the utmost politeness.
After being examined, Austin and his NUMA colleagues were given back their neatly folded and newly laundered clothes. Then they were taken into a small, mostly bare room furnished with several chairs and a table. At their entry, the man in the pin-striped suit who sat behind the table stood and introduced himself as Anthony Mayhew. He said he was with MI5, the British domestic intelligence service, and asked them to take a seat. Mayhew had finely chiseled features, and an upper-class accent that led Austin to say, “Oxford?”
“Cambridge, actually,” he said with a smile. Mayhew talked in clipped sentences, as if he had taken verbal shears to extraneous words. “Distinction is hard to catch. My apologies for the folderol with the sawbones and those lab people in the space suits. Hope you weren't inconvenienced.”
“Not all. We were badly in need of showers,” Austin said.
“Please tell whoever does our laundry to use a little less starch in our collars,” Zavala added.
A chuckle escaped Mayhew's thin lips. “I'll do that. MI5 are well acquainted with the work of NUMA's Special Assignments Team. But once the brass heard from Captain Bruce about dead bodies, secret experiments and mutants, they simply panicked like the good civil servants they are. They wanted to make sure you wouldn't contaminate the British Isles.”
Austin grimaced. “I didn't think we smelled that bad.”
Mayhew gave Austin a blank look, and then broke into laughter. “American humor. I should have known. I spent several years on assignment in the States. My superiors were less worried about odor than having a deadly virus be unleashed.”
“We wouldn't dream of contaminating our English cousins,” Austin said. “Please assure your superiors that this has nothing to do with biological warfare.”
“I'll do that as well,” Mayhew said. He looked from face to face. “Please, could someone please explain what the devil is going on?”
Austin turned to Trout. “Paul is in the best position to fill you in on island life. The rest of us were only there for a few hours.”
Trout's lips tightened in a wry grin. “Let me start by saying that the island is not exactly a Club Med.”
He then laid out the story, from the Alvin's aborted dive on the Lost City to his escape and rescue.
Austin expected a snort of disbelief when Trout described his work on the Philosopher's Stone, but instead, Mayhew slapped his knee in an un-British display of emotion. “This fits like a glove. I knew there was something big behind the scientists' deaths.”
“I'm afraid you've lost us,” Austin said.
"Pardon me. Several months ago, my department was called in to investigate a bizarre series of deaths involving a number of scientists.
The first was a fifty-year-old computer expert who went out to his garden toolshed, wrapped bare electrical wires around his chest, stuck a handkerchief in his mouth and plugged the wires into an outlet. No apparent motive for killing himself."
Austin winced. “Very creative.”
&
nbsp; “That was only the beginning. Another scientist on his way home from a London party drove off a bridge. The police said his blood alcohol level far exceeded the legal level. But witnesses at the party said he had not been drinking and his relatives said the man never drank anything stronger than port. He'd throw up if he did. On top of that, someone had put old worn-out tires on his meticulously maintained Rover.”
“You're starting to interest me,” Austin said.
“Oh, it gets better. A thirty-five-year-old scientist ran a car filled with gas cans into a brick wall. Apparent suicide, the authorities said. Another chap was found under a bridge. Suicide again, the police said. Evidence of alcohol abuse and depression. Family said he never drank alcohol in his life, out of religious conviction, and that there was no depression. Here's another. Chap in his twenties ties one end of a nylon cord around his neck, the other end to a tree, gets back in the car and speeds off. Decapitation.”
“How many of these strange deaths did you investigate?”
“Around two dozen. All scientists.”
Austin let out a low whistle. “What's the connection to the forbidden island?”
“None that we knew of at the time. A couple of the scientists were American, so we had a request from the U.S. embassy to look into it. Some MPs have asked for a full-scale inquiry. I was told to nose around and given a very small investigative staff, not to make a big thing of it, and report my findings directly to the prime minister's office.”
“Sounds as if the brass wasn't anxious to stir things up,” Austin said.
“Exactly my impression,” Mayhew said. “Talked to the relatives and learned that all the dead men had formerly worked for the same research lab.”
MacLean's former employer?" Trout said.
“That's right. When we couldn't find MacLean we assumed he had met an untimely end or had something to do with the deaths of his colleagues. Now here he turns up on your island, dead unfortunately, thereby establishing the connection to the lab.”
Trout leaned forward in his chair. “What was the nature of the research?”
“They were supposedly doing research into the human immune system at a facility in France. It was apparently a subsidiary of a larger, multinational corporation, but they did a good job of hiding ownership in layer after layer of straw companies, dummy corporations and overseas bank accounts. We're still trying to trace the line of ownership.”